Punch March 5 1919

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156.,
March 5, 1919, by Various

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Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 156., March 5, 1919

Author: Various

Release Date: February 21, 2004 [EBook #11201]

Language: English

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PUNCH,

OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

Vol. 156.

March 5, 1919.

CHARIVARIA

.

"What is whisky?" asks an evening paper headline. Our memory is not what is was, but we have certainly seen the name
somewhere.

"Bitter," says the Kölnische Zeitung, "is the taste of defeat." A reference, presumably, to the thirty thousand tons of
American bacon sold to Germany by the Allies.

"The Octopus," said the Lord Mayor of DUBLIN in his inaugural address, "is showing its fangs." Meanwhile Cardinal
GIBBONS is busy twisting the Lion's tentacles.

The owner of a mule found wandering at Walton-on-Thames is being advertised for. "Trooper," writing from
Mesopotamia, says that if it had a portion of khaki breeching and a stirrup in its mouth it is probably the brute which
slipped out of his hands about six months ago.

With regard to the man who was seen struggling in the river last week, the report that his house was immediately taken
by a passer-by is untrue. The man who pushed him in had got there first.

So much controversy has been caused by DE VALERA'S escape from prison that there is some idea of getting him to
go back and do it again.

It is reported that just before his escape DE VALERA had been greatly affected by the account of some labour strike.
He is supposed to have come out in sympathy.

There are now, it is announced, thirty-six prices at which bottled beer may be sold. It is only fair to our readers to state
that the price it used to be is not included in the thirty-six.

[pg 173]

A Servant Girls' Trade Union has been formed. So far there is no suggestion of interfering with the mistresses' evening
out.

Mr. Punch has already called attention to the statement that is costs the nation a guinea every time a question is asked in
Parliament. The only difference between Westminster and the haunts of the General Practitioner is that in the latter case
(1) you pay out of your own pocket, and (2) your tongue is protruded instead of being kept in the cheek.

Burglars are very superstitious, says a press-gossip. For example the appearance of a policeman while a burglar is
drilling a safe is considered distinctly unlucky.

"The pores of the ordinary individual," says a, weekly paper, "would reach nearly forty miles if placed end to end." We
hope that nothing of the kind will be attempted, as the traffic difficulties are bad enough already.

A Thames bargee is reported to have sworn at a policeman for eleven minutes without stopping. We understand that
there is talk of having the oration set to music.

Considerable damage has been caused in the Isle of Wight by rats. A description of the offenders has been furnished to
the police.

In order to cope with the traffic problem the L.G.O. Company have placed one hundred additional omnibuses on the
London streets. This is such an admirable solution of a serious difficulty that people are wondering what member of the
Government first suggested it.

Despite the fact that his wife has attempted to shoot him eleven times a Detroit architect declares that he will never leave
her. He appears to be one of those men who can never take a hint.

Mr. F.M.B. FISHER reports that in New Zealand some convicts recently went on hunger-strike because a band
played outside the prison. It seems that their ground of complaint was that this was not included in the sentence.

A correspondent writing to The Daily News points out that the reign of Satan has been cut short by eighty thousand
years, and that the end of the world is at hand. Several people in search of flats are now wondering whether it is worth
while after all.

Mr. SEAN T.O. KELLY, the Sinn Fein M.P., has handed M. CLEMENCEAU a copy of the "Declaration of
Independence of Ireland." Other means have also been employed to entertain and amuse the distinguished invalid during
his enforced rest.

We understand that a West-End lady has just been appointed mistress to a young parlourmaid.

We hear that the soldier who, after being demobilised, at once returned to barracks in order to say a few suitable
words to his late sergeant-major, was put off on being told that he would have to take his turn in the queue.

"NO, MADAM. NINE GUINEAS—NOT NINE-AND-NINEPENCE."

The Pre-war Habit.

"Clerk (male) quick and accurate at figures; one used to wages preferred."—Daily Paper.

"The engine, which is based on the principle of the turbine, is designed to produce 30,000 revolutions a
minute."—Daily Paper.

Bolshevists please note.

"Commander Ramsay and the Princess themselves had a private survey of their new possessions
yesterday before the guests appeared, and report has it warmly congratulated one another on the interest
and beauty of most of the things, and the unusual percentage of unimaginative and ugly offerings."

Daily Sketch.

Although the statement is somewhat ambiguous, we feel sure that the writer meant well.

THE TONIC OF MARCH

.

(With acknowledgments to the author).

Month of the Winds (especially the East)

That staunch the young year's floods by dyke and dam,

Who enter like a lion, that great beast,

And make your egress like a woolly lamb;

Who come, as Mars full-armed for battle's shocks,

From lethargy of Winter's sloth to wean us,

Then melt (about the vernal equinox),

As he did in the softer arms of Venus;—

O Month, before your final moon is set,

Much may have happened—anything, in fact;

More than in any March that I have met

(Last year excepted) fearful nerves are racked;

Anarchy does with Russia what it likes;

Paris is put conundrums very knotty;

And here in England, with its talk of strikes,

Men, like your own March hares, seem going dotty.

Blow, then, with all your gales and clear our skies!

We did not win that War the other day

To please the Huns or gladden TROTSKY'S eyes

[pg 174]

By fighting, kin with kin, this futile way;

Blow—not too hard, of course—I should not care

To inconvenience Mr. WILSON on his voyage—

But just enough to clean the germy air

And usher in the universal Joy-Age.

O.S.

GOOD-BYE TO THE AUXILIARY PATROL.

II.—THE SHIP'S COMPANY.

Demobilisation in the Navy, whatever it may be in the Army, is a simple affair. You are first sent for by the Master-at-
Arms, who glares, thrusts papers into your trembling hand and ejects you violently in the direction of the Demobilising
Office. Here they regard you curiously, stifle a yawn, languidly inspect your papers and send you to the Paymaster,
who, after wandering disconsolately round the Pay Office, exclaiming pathetically, "I say, hasn't anyone seen that
Mixed Muster book? It must be somewhere, you know," returns you without thanks to the D.O., where they tell you to
call again in three days' time. On returning you are provided with a P.I.O. and numerous necessary papers, requested to
sign a few dozen forms, overwhelmed with an unexpected largesse of pay and sent forth on that twenty-eight days'
leave from which no traveller returns. There's nothing in it at all; the whole thing only lasts four days. They do it by a
system, I believe.

As we assembled on board for the last time, awaiting our railway warrants, there were some moving spectacles. The
Mate and the Second-Engineer were bidding each other affectionate and tearful farewells behind the winch. "You won't
quite forget me, Bill, will yer?" I heard the Second exclaim brokenly, but the only reply was a strangled sob. The
Steward, seated on his kit-bag, was murmuring a snatch of song that asserted the rather personal fact that "our gel's a
big plump lass." He is an oyster-dredger in civil life and is eagerly looking forward to experiencing once more the
delicate thrills and excitement of this hazardous sport. Jones, our Signaller, who recently wrote a poem which opened
with the lines,

"I for one will be surprised
When we are demobilised,"

was struggling painfully to insert a pair of boots into a recalcitrant kit-bag, and exhibited an expression of dogged
determination rather than the astonishment he had predicted. The Trimmer was heard complaining mournfully that when
he left the Patrol Office for the last time they never said good-bye. He seemed to feel this keenly.

All of us were more or less excited, all as it were on tip-toe with expectancy, like school-boys on breaking-up morning.
All, did I say? No, there was one member of the crew who sat supremely indifferent to the prevailing atmosphere of
emotion, gazing calmly before him with his solitary lacklustre eye. The Silent Menace, the ship's dog, betrayed none of
our childlike sentiment. Demobilisation was nothing to him—he was too old a campaigner to let a little matter like that
agitate his habitual reserve. To us the recent period of hostilities had been "The War," the only war in which we had
ever been privileged to fight; but to him it was just one of the numberless affrays of an adventurous life, and, judging by
the worn condition of his ears and the veteran scars that tattooed his tail, some of the previous ones had had their share
of frightfulness. And to-morrow, no doubt, he will try the game again.

It was the Third Hand who suddenly propounded the unsolvable question: "Who's goin' to keep that there Menace?"

There was an almost universal chorus of "Me!" I say "almost universal" because Jones, who is R.N.V.R. and educated,
probably said, "I," and the Chief Engineer was lighting his pipe and merely succeeded in blowing the match out.

"You can't all have him," said the Third Hand, "so I think I'll take him along with me. I knows a bit about dawgs."

There was instant and clamant disapproval, each one of us urging an unquestionable claim to the guardianship of the
orphan Menace. The Steward said he was the only one with the ghost of a right to the dog; had it not always been the
Menace's custom to help him wash up the plates and dishes? A Deck Hand, however, protested that as he had eaten
one of his mittens the Silent Menace was already in part his property. The Mate and the Second-Engineer nearly came
to blows about it.

The question was still unsettled when the warrants arrived. As time was short it was finally decided that whomsoever he
should follow was to be adjudged his future owner. We climbed ashore and spread out fanwise, looking back and
uttering those noises best calculated to incline the unyielding heart of the Menace towards us. He himself rose from the
deck and strolled on to the wharf, where he stood coolly regarding us. Without emotion his Cyclopean orb directed its
gaze from one to another till, midway between the Third Hand and the Second-Engineer, it was observed to irradiate a
sudden and unaccustomed luminosity.

"Come along then, Menace," wheedled the Second.

"Yoicks, old dawg!" exclaimed the Third Hand, patting his knee encouragingly.

But they had misinterpreted their Menace, for in the middle distance, on a pile of timber directly behind the expectant
twain, had appeared the sleek person of a sandy cat which proved to be the attraction. For an instant the Menace
stood motionless, his spine bristling and his tail growing stiff; then with a short sharp bark he sprang forward like an
arrow from a bow in the direction of the feline objective. We saw a streak of yellow as she fled for safety and life; a
cloud of dust, and the Menace and his quarry disappeared from view. Faintly from afar floated an eager yelp, telling that
the chase was still in full cry.

"Well, sink me," said the Second-Engineer, "that settles it."

There were trains to be caught, and so, slowly and sadly, we turned away.

Thus did the Silent Menace, with the rest of his shipmates, bid good-bye to the Auxiliary Patrol.

A HOME FROM HOME.

PRESIDENT WILSON (quitting America in his Fourteen-League-of-Nations Boots). "IT'S TIME I WAS GETTING BACK TO A

HEMISPHERE WHERE I REALLY AM APPRECIATED."

THE ROAD TO THE RHINE.

A LITTLE LOOT.

It was at the time when men still imagined that to be a pivotal man in some way enhanced their chances of being
demobilised that an abnormal wave of acquisitiveness passed over us. Before it passed, I regret to say, it hovered,
chiefly on account of the prospect of a speedy return home and the desire to take back some kind of trophy to satisfy
the still small voice of inquiry concerning papa and the Great War.

The very first day after we had arrived in the most unimportant village imaginable (our usual luck), Roley, the fattest
subaltern on record, lurched into the room and told us of the discovery of a wonderful trainload of abandoned Bosch
material, Being a Regular soldier, acquisitiveness runs through his whole being, of course, and he gave us a most
glowing account of the wonders to be found. "Full of things," he cried, "coal, Bosch beds, field-guns and souvenirs—
hundreds of 'em."

I know no rabbit that could have pricked up his ears quicker than did the pivotal men at the sound of that magic word.
"Hail, Roley!" we cried; "we who are about to be demobilised salute you!"

[pg 175]

[pg 176]

That evening a select conclave of super-scroungers met with great solemnity. Beds for the men and coal for all—
certainly, and then we would start collecting. By the morrow each man slept in luxury, while subalterns from other
companies came in to warm themselves by our roaring fires. Not till then did we feel justified in turning our thoughts to
the furnishing of the baronial hall at home.

Some day, we pivotal men are still ready to believe, when demobilisation is nearly complete we shall return to our
bowler hats and civic respectability, but meantime, let me tell you, respectable elderly subalterns enjoy things like
clambering over a forbidden Bosch train in search of loot. When we had climbed to the end of the trucks and were
thoroughly dirty, we found we had done very badly. The souvenirs were there all right, but no matter how interesting
and desirable it may be, you simply cannot pack up a field-gun and send it home—the tail part does stick out so.

Chardenal and I had picked up the best thing we could find, brass cartridge cases (about three feet high) of a 5·9 gun,
and some shorter eight-inch affairs. It was hard work. I carried four of the former and Chardenal carried two of each,
and we looked as if we had come to mend a main drain. Not having been in the Army long enough to have lost all sense
of shame, Chardenal began by trying to hide his cases under his British warm. His biggest effort at concealment was
made when passing the sentry of the Brigade Headquarters' guard, and the noise he made doing it brought the whole
guard out. However, being sentries, they took very little notice of what we did, except that the N.C.O. in charge
certainly did pick up one of the dropped cases and hand it to Chardenal. This was after I had tried to help him and we
had dropped the whole lot.

After this Chardenal gave up all idea of concealment and tried to express by his carriage that he accepted no
responsibility whatever for the souvenirs. He didn't want the things, not he! They were there, certainly, and—well, yes,
he was carrying them, but why he was carrying them (here he would have shrugged his shoulders if he could) he really
couldn't tell you; it was a matter of absolute indifference to him, anyway. Histrionically I have no doubt it was a great
piece of work, but the only possible inference anybody could have drawn was that he might have been carrying them to
oblige me—which I resented.

Heavens, how our arms ached, for it was over two miles to the billet! A collision of milk-trains could hardly have made
more noise than we did as we clashed and clanged down the main street. Of course we met everybody we knew.
People we hadn't seen for years, people we didn't like, people who didn't like us—all seemed to have been paraded
especially for the occasion.

We got home in the end, and it was a great triumph. The only unenthusiastic person was Mr. Brown, my batman, who
surveyed the things in silence, betokening that he knew quite well he would be called upon to sew them up in sacking
and label them "Officer's Spare Kit, c/o Cox and Co." Then he looked sadly at my soiled tunic and my British warm
and asked if I had carried them far.

"Over two miles," I replied proudly. "Pity," he said; "there's a whole dump of them at the bottom of the garden here."

There the matter might have ended if the fat Roley had not lurched up again the next day with a steel box containing a
dial-sight off a field-gun. The dial-sight was a complicated affair of prisms and lenses which probably cost the Bosch
about sixty pounds, and we felt a little sick at having overlooked such a find.

"Awful job I had too," he went on. "Some fellows were seen yesterday taking stuff away and they've put a sentry on the
train."

"Serve them right," we said.

Next day we returned to the trucks to try again. The sentry was engaged in a little conversation, and whilst Chardenal
took his photograph (ostensibly for The Daily Snap as "Sentry Guarding a Train") I slipped behind the trucks, opened
a couple of lids in the tails of some field-guns, picked out two cases of sights and hurried off. Chardenal joined me later
and, concealing our swag under our British warms, we walked as quickly as we could until the Brigadier stopped and
had a little chat with us about things in general. And there we had to stand for a quarter of an hour on a freezing
afternoon with two fingers holding the box and the other fingers holding the coat down to effect better concealment.
Chardenal was in so much pain and wore such an expression of agonized innocence that the Brigadier wanted him to
come into headquarters until he felt better.

"Well, what have you got?" asked Carfax, another candidate for demobilisation, when we finally got back and showed
him the cases.

"Only two?" he cried, "and you promised me one!" We said things.

"What lenses are they?" he asked.

"I don't know," said Chardenal, "but, whatever's the heaviest kind, that's the kind we've brought."

And we opened the boxes and they were empty.

[pg 177]

The baronial hall will remain unfurnished. I'm fed up with the whole business.

L.

Farmer (to land-girl, who has been sent to feed the pigs).

"WHY HAVE YOU BROUGHT THE SWILL BACK?"

Land Girl. "WELL, THEY WERE ASLEEP AND LOOKED SO

COMFY—I SIMPLY HADN'T THE HEART TO DISTURB THEM."

The Language Test for V.A.D.'s.

From an Official Form of Application for stripes:—

"I certify that these Members have diligently attended their duties at the Hospital, are always neat in
appearance, punctual in their habits and proficient in their cursing. I recommend they be allowed to enter
for the Blue Stripe Examination."

From the announcement of a musical service:—

"Soprano Solo, 'With Verger clad'. (Creation), Miss Dorothy ——,"—Canadian Paper.

Quite a new "creation."

CASTING PEARLS.

Philistine (who has been dragged by wife to Jazz tea-shop). "WHAT IS IT THEY'BE TRYING TO PLAY, DEAR?"
Modern Wife. "OH, YOU WOULDN'T BE ANY THE WISER.—NOTHING OUT OF 'THE BOHEMIAN GIRL.'"

THE HOUSE HISTRIONIC.

The enterprise of Mr. C.B. COCHRAN, who announces that the oak-parlour used in his play at the St. Martin's
Theatre will be sold by auction at the conclusion of the run, has not unnaturally provoked a certain liveliness in
architectural circles. Should advertisements of houses for sale ever reappear in the newspapers, it is thought likely that
they may include something like this:—

Desirable Family Mansion of unique interest, suit dramatist seeking congenial associations. Exceptionally fine dining-hall,
as used in the supper scene in Macbeth, and equipped with convenient Banquo sliding-panel to kitchen. The latter
apartment deserves the epithet Baronial, being transported direct from the successful pantomime, Puss-in-Boots, and
capable of accommodating a ballet of two hundred cooks. The elegantly proportioned drawing-room (to which a fourth
wall has been since added) was the subject of special mention in several leading newspapers after the production of
Epigrams at the Niobe Theatre; while each of the twelve bedrooms represents some recent triumph in the
Problematical Drama. An attractive feature is the fitting of an artificial sunlight attachment to the outside of each window;
while every room is provided with one or more telephones.

Snug Bachelor Flat, direct from the phenomenally successful farce, Peers and Pyjamas, at the Plenipotentiaries
Theatre. The fine central living-room contains sixteen doors, opening into bedrooms, kitchen, coal-cellar, etc. May be
as conveniently entered by the window as by the doors. All the latter work upon the well-known dramatic hinge, by
which as soon as one shuts another opens. Unlimited facilities for hide-and-seek. Exceptional opportunity for active
tenant.

From The Mistress of Court Regina, by Mr. CHARLES GARVICE:—

"He kissed her, taking his cigarette out of his mouth to do so."

This courteous consideration is invariably shown in the best circles.

Geordie. "WELL, AH'M BLOWED! THEY'M NAMED YON PLAACE AFTER T'OWD DOOG-OUT ON T' SOMME!"

THE SUBALTERNS' PARADISE.

I met Bilsden and congratulated him on being in "civvies."

[pg 178]

"What are you going to do now?" I asked. "Back to the old firm?"

"No," said Bilsden gravely; "when a man has acquired the power of leading men he's thrown away in an accountant's
office, especially as the junior member of the staff. I see no prospect in England. I have offered to take charge of large
departments of English firms, and be responsible for entire supervision, but they fail to recognise what the capacity for
leadership gained in the army will do. I'm off to Ceylon—tea-planting. Just to control big gangs of coolies and see that
they work. It will be child's play for me. Lovely climate; elephants. An absolutely ideal job."

It seemed to me on that foggy frosty day, that to lie in a hammock in the shade, with the temperature about ninety,
watching coolies work, would be the perfect form of labour.

I congratulated Bilsden on having found his métier.

Half-an-hour later I met Parkinson, another second-loot who had just shed his pip.

"Well, what are you going to do now?" I asked.

"I'm a bit dubious," he said.

"Try tea-planting in Ceylon," I suggested. "Elephants, spicy breezes, swing in a hammock all day watching coolies. My
dear boy, were I twenty years younger I should be inquiring about a berth on the next steamer."

"Ah," said Parkinson, "of course Ceylon's all right, and I've a lot of pals going out there; but what about rubber-planting
in the Malay Peninsula? They've got tigers there. That's rather a pull."

I admitted the attraction of tigers to certain tastes, but not to mine. In my case the pull, I thought, might be on the tiger's
side.

Since these interviews I have been going the rounds of my military acquaintances and I find a general feeling in favour of
Ceylon or the Malay Peninsula.

Of course it's an excellent thing that they should take up the white man's burden and make the coolies work, only I'm in
dread lest the overcrowding we suffer from in England may be extended to the Orient. Will there be enough plantations,
coolies and big game to go round amongst our subalterns?

I can see the Government introducing several Bills—

(1) For the extension of the Isle of Ceylon;

(2) For the lengthening of the Malay Peninsula;

(3) For the importation of five million coolies, estimated at the rate of five hundred coolies each, to give employment to
ten thousand second-loots;

(4) For the importation of elephants, tigers, lions, buffalo, hippopotami, giraffes and capercailzie*.

AT PRINTING-HOUSE SQUARE.

[Mr. GEOFFREY DAWSON has resigned the Editorship of The Times, owing to a disagreement with
Lord NORTHCLIFFE over matters of policy, and has been succeeded by Mr. H. WICKHAM STEED,
formerly foreign editor.]

"Once more upon the waters! Yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a Steed
That knows his master."

Byron, "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."

[pg 179]

Inspecting Officer. "WHICH IS THE MOST IMPORTANT NUT ON THIS LORRY?"

Driver (ex-infantry). "I AM, SIR."

A CAREER.

(The Right Man in the Right Place.)

You should see our son James!
You should just see our James!

As bright as a button, as sharp as a knife!
My wife says to me and I say to my wife,
"You'll never have seen such a son in your life

As our jammy son, James."

He is now three years old;
He's a good three years old;

When the fellow was two you could see by his brow
(At the age of a year, you could guess by the row)
That this was a coming celebrity. Now

He's a stout three-year-old.

Question: What shall he be?
Tell us, what shall he be?

Shall he follow his father and go to the Bar,
Where, passing his father, he's bound to go far?
"But one knows," says his mother,"what barristers are.

Something else he must be!"

Do you fancy a Haig?
Shall our James be a Haig?

The War Office tell me he's late for this war,
Have the honour to add there won't be any more
Since that's what the League of the Nations is for;

So it's off about Haig.

But his mother sees light
(Mothers always see light).

"This League of the Nations we mentioned above,

With the motto, 'Be Quiet,' the trade-mark, a Dove,
Will be wanting a President, won't it, my love?"

Jimmy's mother sees light.

Yes, that could be arranged;
Nay, it must be arranged.

In the matter of years Master Jimmy would meet
Presidential requirements. What age can compete,
In avoiding the gawdy, achieving the neat,
With forty to fifty? Thus, forty-five be't.
Given forty-two years, he'll be finding his feet
And the Treaty of Peace should be getting complete....

And so that's all arranged.

HENRY.

"I am sorry to have to say that this statement is a ———, and if any of my readers have any doubt as to
whether I used that strong term without just reason, I invite them to communicate with the Ministry of
Shipping on the subject."—Letter in "The Observer."

We respect our contemporary's discretion, but we should like to know what was the "strong term".

"The Literary Class has grown beyond all expectations, the numbers attending the last few meetings
averaging nearly 100. Papers have been read and discussed on Dickens' Works, Tess, Tale of Two
Cities."

The Highway.

Flushed with success, the Literary Class is expected next to tackle HARDY; Jude the Obscure and The Mystery of
Edwin Drood being the first objectives.

NOUVELLES DE PARIS.

Paris, March 3rd, 1919.

DEAREST POPPY,—You know, don't you, that I write for the Press? You must write, ma chère, if you
want to be dans le mouvement nowadays. It's getting to be almost as big a craze as jazzing and is quite
as exciting. It has its difficulties, of course, but so has the jazz roll. And if you've got a title or have been
mixed up in a cause célèbre you can write on anything sans aucune connaissance spéciale. Camilla
Blythely says she just sends in her photo and signature and those obliging newspaper people do the rest—
which is most helpful to a busy person. But then we can't all be as notorious as dear Camilla.

I hope it isn't getting just a little overdone. But I hear that lots of papers are offering only three guineas a
column now for quite important signatures, while others actually insist on contributors writing their own
articles.

Quant à moi, I'm writing up the light side of the Peace Conference. I do those snappy pars about
LLOYD GEORGE'S ties and CLEMENCEAU'S gloves and all those little domestic touches that people
would much rather read about than such remote things as Czecho-Slovaks and Jugo-Slavs. I did a most
thrilling three columns about the hats of the delegates, from the bowler of Mr. BONAR LAW to the
"coffieh" and "igal" headdress of EMIR FAISUL, the Arab Prince. (It's always so effective if you can stick
in a word or two like that that nobody understands. You never need get them right).

Talking of odd words, the latest boutade over here is to find new names and epithets for our dress
materials—some of them quite weird. If you want a silk tricot you ask for "djersador," while a coarser
texture is "djersacier"; "mousseux" now describes velvet as well as champagne; ninon is known as
"vapoureuse"; while to make one of the newest Spring dresses you require only three-and-a-half yards of
"Salomé." Some of the couturiers in the Rue de la Paix are issuing fashion-pronouncing handbooks, while
others have their own interpreters to assist customers.

The theatres over here are getting extremely—well, what our grandparents termed "risqués," but it really
goes further than that. And the worst of it is my countrypeople seem to think it's the smart thing to go to
them, which they do most indiscriminately. Heureusement they don't understand the stuff. Whenever I see
a most circumspect and highly proper British matron entering one of the Boulevard theatres nowadays I
think what a mercy it is that we as a nation rely so much on pronouncing phrase-books for acquiring

[pg 180]

foreign languages. It keeps one so single-minded in the midst of a wicked world.

But, after all, propriety is a question de localité. Else why do people do things here which would badly
shock us at home? Par exemple, dancing between the courses of a meal is our latest caprice here; but I
was un peu étonnée, the other evening, to see the Duchess of Mintford, at a restaurant of the most chic,
jazzing off the effects of the turbot with light-hearted abandon.

Unfortunately a waiter carrying a tray darted across the track at the very moment when she was involved
in that step so embrouillant, the side-roll.

It took quite a long time to collect, and put in their proper order, the waiter, the contents of the tray, her
Grace and all the other jazzers who were coming up behind.

But, après tout, little comment was roused because most of the onlookers thought the incident was just
part of the dance.

So long, old thing.

Bien à vous,

ANNE.

THE TRUMP SUIT.

Those who wield Britannia's power
Have decreed a blissful hour,
When the mellow bugle-note
Sounds in every ship afloat,
And you see the forrard decks
Littered up with leathernecks,
Seamen sprawling on the hatches,
Darning socks and fitting patches,
Cleaning jumpers, sewing, smoking,
Writing, fighting, sleeping, joking,
Baiting foe and twitting friend—
Sailors call it "Make and Mend."

In this jolly throng each day
Gunner 'Erbert, R.M.A.,
Sat and smoked serenely bored,
So that I must needs record
When that precious hour was ended
He had neither made nor mended.

'Erbert was a crumpled rose
In the beds of N.C.O.'s,
And a blot on the escutcheon
Which they pride themselves so much on;
For, in spite of threat and curse,
Cells and badges lost, or worse,
Captain's frown or sergeants' oaths,
'Erbert wouldn't mend his clothes.

In a distant Eastern land
Certain tribes got out of hand,
And, to comfort little Mary,
Sought to stew the missionary.
Our Marines were duly sent
To apportion chastisement,
And they snatched him from the larder,
But alas! pursuing harder
Than was wise in such a scrap,
They were landed in a trap.
For the wily natives got
All around and copped the lot,
Stripping off them every stitch

Of the clothes they stood in, which,
I am sure you'll all agree,
Was a great indignity.

Copped the lot? No, there was one
Absent when the deed was done.
'Erb, with his accustomed push,
Was advancing when the bush
Dragged the last remaining stitches
From the bag he called his breeches,
Leaving nothing but the dregs
Of the red stripe down his legs.
'Erbert paused; though not a prude,
He had never liked the nude.

Seated in a distant clearing.
He remarked the natives cheering,
And, directed by the din,
Saw the plight his mates were in.
When he thought the time was ripe,
Clad in little but his stripe
'Erbert charged.... The tribes in wonder
Promptly bolted with the plunder.

'Erbert with averted head
Quickly gathered every shred
Of his late-lamented kit,
Saying, as he handed it
To the Major, "I infer
You have lost your breeches, Sir."

With his glasses in his hands
On his deck the Captain stands,
Watching with surprise and fear
His detachment reappear—
First the Major, garbed in dirt
And the tail of 'Erbert's shirt;
Then the Sergeant, better dressed
In the sleeves of 'Erbert's vest;
Then the rest in fragments torn
From the jumper he had worn.
Last comes 'Erbert, proud as NELSON,
With a smile and nothing else on.

Is it Fortune's final stroke,
Or the Skipper's little joke?
As the ladder they ascend
Comes the bugle "Make and Mend."

"A flotilla of Portuguese warships is actively maintaining the blockade between the mouth of the Volga and
that of the Minho."

Daily Paper.

The report that the Bolshevists have borrowed a "Big Bertha" and are meditating a bombardment of Lisbon by way of
reprisal is as yet unconfirmed.

"Mr. W.A. Appleton, secretary of the Feedration of Trade Unions, declares that since the Armistice the
federation 'has lost no opportunity of endeavouring to smash the controls that meant continued high prices
(of food)."—Evening Paper.

More power to the "Feedration" in its self-sacrificing campaign.

[pg 181]

THE GUEST WHO BROUGHT A BANJO.

[pg 182]

:"THERE'S A BIT OF A FINANCIAL CRISIS ON AT THE PRESENT MOMENT. I BLEW INTO COX'S ON THE WAY HERE, ON

THE OFF CHANCE, BUT—NOTHING DOING!"

"I S'POSE YOUR OVERDRAFT BLEW YOU OUT AGAIN—WHAT?"

THE RIGHTS OF LABOUR.

(Extract from "The Times and Mail" of January 1st, 1925.)

A significant case was heard yesterday in the courts, when William Blogg, bricklayer's labourer, recovered twenty-five
pounds damages from James Buskin Carruthers, artist, for injury done to the plaintiff's eight-cylinder car through
defendant's culpable negligence in allowing himself to be run over by it.

Plaintiff urged that he was a labouring-man, who worked eight hours a day. The court was at once adjourned, while
restoratives were applied to the Bench.

On the resumption of the proceedings it was explained that since the passing of the Two Hours Maximum Day Bill the
supply of labour had been inadequate to meet the demands made upon it, and plaintiff had patriotically filled four posts,
at the minimum rate of fifteen shillings an hour. It was while he was hurrying from one sphere of activity to another that
the collision occurred, resulting in injury to the plaintiff's mud-guard and loss of valuable time.

Defendant, who admitted negligence, pleaded poverty and threw himself upon the mercy of the Court.

The Bench, in summing up, called the jury's attention to the fact that defendant was not a labourer, but only a
professional man; at the same time he reminded them of the impartiality of British justice, which did not admit that there
was one law for the rich and another for the poor. Even the wealthiest labouring-man must be protected in the exercise
of his inalienable right to work.

The accompanying photograph shows the plaintiff in the act of assisting to build a wall.; He is a self-made man, having
started life as a solicitor and by sheer perseverance raised himself to the lucrative and responsible' position of an
unskilled bricklayer's labourer.

TO M. GEORGES CLEMENCEAU.

Strong son of France, whose words were ever lit
By lightning flashes of ironic wit;
More fond of power than of pelf or place,
Eternal foeman of the mean and base,
And always ready in a righteous cause
To suffer odium and contemn applause—